


Blood Dreams

by Aithilin



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 19:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8069038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Kurogane is used to dreams about blood.





	

Dreams of blood were nothing new to him. He dreamed of the blood of enemies and monsters— of hulking creatures that spread the blood of civilians across burning fields; of smaller, softer monsters that clawed at the world in rage from behind his own eyes. He dreamt of monsters in the form of black-clad assassins whose blood he let drip like rain from the palace rooftop tiles— because they were monsters, who craved the blood of an innocent girl (not that Tomoyo was just an innocent girl, but that was the face presented to the world outside of the Imperial family, and Kurogane thought that made those warlords sending assassins all the more monstrous). 

Kurogane dreamt of blook. His blood. His family’s blood. The blood of monsters and enemies who refused to fall when he cut through them. The blood that stained grass and tile and stone black without the bodies to follow. 

He dreamt of his mother’s blood. The stain of it in her sacred space as her duties were interrupted.

They were dreams that he could brush off now, in his adulthood. They drove him forward, steeled his resolve to shed more blood if it meant he was closer to his goals. They left him angry and burning and ready for another fight— indifferent to the lives that lay at his feet. 

When he was young, the nightmares left tears burning in his eyes. Brought the morning on too quickly and too harshly as he tried to right himself on the training fields. They left him angry and raging at his helplessness to stop the dreams of blood from rushing through his now-stained memories. 

He never thought he would ever dream of the way blood stained and streaked pale hair. Or the trail it left on shattering concrete in a world of burning rains and desperate warriors. 

He dreamt of the sight of Fai being unceremoniously dragged through his own blood. Of being there when the boy he had thought of as a son plucked an eye like a ghoul from one of Tomoyo’s ghost stories. He stood frozen in place as the boy’s hand was as stained and streaked in more vivid red than Kurogane remembered. He stood frozen as he watched the boy reach for the second eye. 

He remembered the door, and the weight of the princess in his arms. Of the little white creature in a panic just out of reach. Of the cold and the stone— pocked and melted by the poisoned rain— and the indifference of their hosts. 

But it was the blood that left him cold. 

Fai’s blood. 

The trail and the stain of it. The gaping wound and the laboured breath struggling through the pain. He remembered the feel of that stolen magic lashing over him and shredding him. 

Dreamt of failing to protect the mage, the princess, the boy that had left them and the one that had arrived. 

In some dreams, both eyes were stolen in that reservoir, and he watched (as helpless as when he rushed to his mother’s shrine) as the mage died just out of reach. Mercifully unconscious through the last moments. 

In others he was a complete failure— unable to stop Syaoran from beating him back with Fai’s own power. He watched as a world crumbled around him and his new family was left tattered and half-dead. 

In some, he was the one stained. He was the one who’s fingers had reached in and plucked that sapphire blue from Fai as he simply smiled in his trust.

He woke up cold, hollow, uncertain. He felt the empty fear linger even as the sun scraped across the garden porch just outside of his rooms and the birds’ sang empty calls to each other (reminding him of distant shrieks of their own little Mokona). He woke in a daze, not warmed until he felt slender, strong arms snake around his shoulders and a deceptive strength pull him down for the morning kiss. 

“Did Kuro-pon have bad dreams?”

The warmth came later, with the soft smile and speckled blue eyes. With the promise of kisses and smiles and teasing for the day ahead. 

“I almost lost you.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Kuro-sama;” there is was, the smile and the teasing and the memory of the bright days they had now.


End file.
